


First Fantasy NaNoWriMo: 4: A Council Meeting

by SkiesOverTokyo



Series: FirstFan NaNoWriMo Drabbles [4]
Category: First Fantasy (Webcomic)
Genre: Gratuitious German, Other, Pre-Canon, Villains, enjoyably florid dialogue, terrible people who do terrible things bitch like 14 year olds at a sleepover, unexpected gordon ramsay, villain dinner party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-18 17:52:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16521857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkiesOverTokyo/pseuds/SkiesOverTokyo
Summary: Plots are hatched. Schemes are launched. High-quality hotel catering is provided.





	First Fantasy NaNoWriMo: 4: A Council Meeting

To all outward viewers, the Trans-Metropolitan Reactive Analysis-Performance Society seemed a dusty, if impressively resourced bureau, with offices in the Imperial Capital, in the major port of  Fayreport, and in Graftstad, the largest city within a hundred miles of the Edge, with a few smaller outposts dotted across the Empire. Their official mission statement marked them out as a think-tank, one of the few that stood apart from both the Imperial Family and the Imperial Parliament, thus allowing them, on the few occasions they produced reports, to advise both on policy. A few regarded them as an organisation with perhaps unfair access to both sides of the Imperial Government, but for most, the organisation was little more than a curio, an oddity for an Empire where most decisions were made by the Emperor or his inner circle, despite what the stinking masses may grumble about.  
  
The reservation for the Orestia had been made in their name. The Orestia, or “Old Ore”, as the locals called it, was a centuries old pile in the view of the huddled masses (not that anyone cared what _they_ thought), and to the discerning, cultured, and wealthy, the largest, most celebrated, and most expensive of the many hotels that sat a little inland of the docks, in a perfect mix of “close enough to see the sea, and enjoy its spoils as fresh as they come” and “far enough away to avoid the chaos, smell and noise of the Grand Dock Market”, a scrum of two dozen races, several dozen languages, over two hundred stalls, and no sanitation that spread for six whole acres along two side of the docks, and half-way down the river Drakis.  
  
The muffled hubbub of the winding down of the Grand Dock Market could just be heard as over the clatter of hooves, as a large black carriage pulled up at the Orestia’s main entrance, the famous South Face, a Elvish-designed (astonishing enough, given that elves did not traditionally work in stone, and even more astonishing given its scale), set of towers and battlements, flanked by two two hundred foot colonnades that sweep in a lazy arc from the dvarven-cast gates, fully twenty feet high and richly decorated with pastoral scenes, guiding the visitor up to the doors, and then, at the end of their night away sweep away again to the discrete exit.  
  
The carriage slowed to a stop, its driver gently taps the roof of the ornate carriage, and, after a few seconds, a door opened, and, as slow and unhurried as the opening of that door, two figures stepped out, onto the marble steps that the great architectural historian, Medas the Beglassed had once called _the single most overly extravagant walk in the Empire, but one of its best_. A more unusual couple there could not be.

  
The young man stepped down first, and held his hand out for the statuesque woman who followed. It may have taken the onlooker a few seconds to realise that the young man, was, indeed a male human-a long, artfully arranged mane of hair fell to his waist, flowers months out of season entwined in his blonde, almost golden, hair, a soft mouth slid into an easy smile, face and lips softly made up to accentuate his already prounounced cheekbones to sword-sharp. Those eyes, eyes the poet and bards had often said “will make you either want to kill him, or sleep with him” shone with a rare, and dangerous, quality, reflecting torchlight, kohled and blinking so quickly you yourself could miss it. Over narrow, feminine shoulders that only occasionally belied the fact his swordhand was almost as fast as his tongue, a leather jacket in deepest crimson, the crest of House Cláris cut into it, bare skin showing through like finest marble, the jacket closed at the front, but for his throat, where a heavy necklace bore a key stamped with the same crest, enabled and with gold detailing. Heavily embroidered leggings, and boots, both in the same red leather, complete the look. An expensive looking rapier hung at his waist, a holstered pistol on his leg, both expensive, and expertly tooled. Pagaoni Cláris, youngest scion of the wealthiest family outside of the Imperial household itself, a man with two loves-himself, and his own achievements-turned, folding his arms, foot tapping in an actorly imitation of annoyance.  
“We are going to be late. You will make _me_ , not to mention _yourself¸_ look like a fool. I don’t know how you took longer than me to get ready, given how little you seem to wear, Blitzgast the Merciless. ”  
The woman, Blitzgast shrugged, and unhurriedly adjusted her cloak around her, stepped over to the driver, and, moving her cloak aside to reveal clothing that seemed little more than strings, and scant fabric over her muscled form, but for her rather ample chest, enclosed within beautifully crafted, fur-edged, leather breastplate, fetched her coinpurse, carefully counted out what, to an average driver would have been several good nights work, and handed them to him.  
“You nezer saw us. Understood?”  
A curt nod  
“Never saw ya, Ma’am, or your friend. You can trust Bernie Flowers with that. Never saw ya, never will see ya, understood.”  
He doffed his cap, cracked the reins, and the carriage pulled away.  
  
Blitzgast the Merciless, hand running through her long, silvery hair, watched him go, then turned to the shorter man.  
“Vot a nice man. Pagaoni, why can’t all your city be like zis?”  
“A lack of manners, not enough culture, and a total absence of pride in their work. That, and most of them aren’t in your company, my dear.”  
She pulled her cloak around her, shivering  
“I vill never get used to zese winters. Shall ve, before one of uz freeze to death?”  
  
The inside of the Orestia, was, if anything, grander than the exterior, a mix of Elvish, human, Dvarven and even Drakanic, rare as the work of the dragons was, interior design. Some had once called it “The Empire in a House”, and the description was, Pagaoni, had often admitted to himself, apt. Admittedly, some of the warren of rooms that circled the Great and Imperial Ballrooms, whilst perfectly reflecting the cultures they took influence from, put him ill at ease, and he had insisted the High Elven Suite, a glittering jewel among jewels, for this particular dinner.  
  
Such demands were smoothed somewhat by the fact he was part owner of the building-the Cláris Family, together with a Dvarven Banking Clan, and a particularly cultured dragon, Mikkel the Magnificent, had bought the place from the current Emperor’s father, for a song. They’d agreed to turn it to a hotel, renovated it, with dear Grandmama Cláris’ sublime taste picking 30 key cultures from across the Empire (the Dvarves and Mikkel picking the rest), and building the rooms, complete with authentic furniture and decoration, in perfect replica of key cultural functions, from A Dvarvan great feast to an Elven treehouse _._  
  
The work had taken much of her life, and her daughter had taken up the challenge. Pagaoni, at her side, had cut his teeth as a aesthete and trader, at sourcing furniture, wall-hangings, suits of armour, weapons (functional and ceremonial) for another thirty, turning it from mere jewel of the area to the highlight of the Old Imperial Quarter, a must see for those with deep enough pockets.  
  
They reach the High Elven Room. That chef was there, clearly having only just changed from his work outfit, and wearing one of those ghastly decorative shirts, this one in the imitation of roaring flames. Pagaoni fought the urge to take the man outside, and drag him shopping for something that suited him, but resisted, glowering at the amused grin that Blitzgast gave him. The man raised a hand in greeting, but made no attempt to open the door for him. Cur.  
  
“You know what? I was beginning to wonder if you two had decided to play lovebirds, given you were hosting Blitz, and we all know she likes pretty boys. And pretty knives. And pretty much anything that’s pretty as long as it doesn’t mind a litt-“  
“Shut up. I bet the Bloody Lord of Secrets doesn’t get this cheek”  
“The Lord of Secrets turns up on time. They were there when I arrived at work tonight, which, I gotta be honest, is a bit weird, but you know, the guy keeps to a schedule. Which is more than you two do.”  
He smiled at Blitzgast  
“Not your fault, Milady, I know this peacock takes an age to get dressed. Ahem.”  
The chef opened the door, and the soft hubbub of people talking filtered out into the warm corridor, returning to Pagaoni with a hard stare.  
“Now, get in, make your apologies, and get out of my face for half an hour. And if…”  
The stare hardened like a golem in the morning sun.  
“You bloody order phoenix again, I will make you eat the bloody beak. You know how tough those things are to keep dead.”  
  
Pagaoni and Blitzgast entered the room, the door closing behind them with a soft click. A large round table, straight from the hall of a now sundered Elvish house, sat in the middle of the room, richly carved wooden panelling covered the wall, and part of a tree stretched from the corner furthest from the door, to across the crystal lit ceiling. Aside from the tree, there is scant decoration, two full sets of armour covering swordsmen midway through a duel at opposite corners of the room.  
  
Sat around the table, beneath the tree’s branches, were four figures, all of whom turned to greet the new comers.  The first to speak, in her soft lilting voice, is the Green Lady, whose eyes instantly flicked up to the tree above, as soon as she’d registered the newcomers, bark-turned fingers stroking the polished wood of the table.  
“You are both late. Sit down. We have missed you. Make yourself at home.”  
They found their places, already carefully marked by elegant little cards, Pagaoni realising, with a stab of annoyance, he’s between the Lord of Secrets and the Chef, Blitzgast between the Green Lady and Hayu, Scourgelaird of the Plains. Dull-dull-dull! The Lord of Secrets leaned over, handed Pagaoni a piece of paper in beautiful handwriting, and withdrew the long, three fingered hand. He’d had always been impressed that The Lord of Secrets’ handwriting was so immaculate, given this notable drawback.  
_How are you **?** I’m sorry that you’re sat with him, but it’s **technically** his hotel, so I sadly suppose that he’d be able to draw up the seating plan to wind you up. I’ve been busy. I sadly didn’t have time to visit Heldun, or I’d certainly have made time to find that painting you mentioned to me._  
Pagaoni fished in his jacket for a pencil, and carefully wrote back  
_Probably wise you didn’t. I bought it, so it wouldn’t have been there had you sought it out. You’ll have to visit my villa at some point. You’ll  find the similarity remarkable. Of course, the world doesn’t have many artists like Maishi, and fewer still after the accident. Not that that_ _had anything to do with me, you understand?_  
He passed the note back, and the Lord of Secrets let out a soft, impossible to age, (or indeed gender) laugh. They quickly wrote on the reverse of the note, needing both hands to keep the paper steady, and once more moved it to Pagaoni. It simply read  
_Jealous?_  
“A little”  
  
“Oh what’s this? Pagaoni and The Lord of Secrets are passing notes? Another of your trysts, Pagaoni?”  
Oh, double ugh.  He’d never liked Hayu Ignoring the fact that the pale young woman now had something like two thousand horse gathering about a hundred leagues north of the border with the Edge, was the great granddaughter of Bazak the Tearer, a scourge who mothers still scared their children to bed with, and probably had the equal measure of any man in the Empire with a bow and a horse, she stank of horses, was overly amused by crude or base jokes, and was far too interested in affairs that didn’t concern her.  
  
Worse, Varya had piped up next to her.  
“I bet he’s trying to work out what he likes more, himself, or his own reflection…”  
How the Imperial Prince had managed to get himself onto this council had Pagaoni baffled. The Prince was charmless, bad with women, worse with men, violent, sadistic-and not in the fun way-crass, boorish, a heavy drinker, a military nut who was scared of battle, and had bad taste in architecture and furnishings to boot. Unfortunately, he’s also their best chance to get their plans underway. Nevertheless, he’s about to lean over the table to tell Varya to keep his thoughts to himself, when the door clicks open, and the Chef, Gaird Dancé, stepped into the room, swept his gaze around the table, and unhurriedly found his seat.  
  
A few seconds passed, before Pagaoni rose to his feet.  
“Well, since the seven of us are here, with Mr Dancé once again deputising for his employee, Mikkel the Magnificent, I think it’s time to call the meeting to order.”  
A pause, as the group slowly hushed itself to silence, before Pagaoni continued  
“Ladies, gentlemen, our esteemed colleague from the Treasure Keepers, I hearby open the One Hundred and Twenty-first Annual General Progress Meeting of the High and Powerful Council of  
Ominous Vagueness, and remind its current Septet of its aims. Firstly…uh…”  
  
A tradition of the council was that its chief current aim was never spoken out loud. This had, unfortunately, led to the Council, as its members changed, spaces became filled, and the Council continued, as it had for the last One Hundred and Twenty Five (nearly Twenty Six) years, not really knowing what it actually set out to do, and so it had changed, from forging peace to waging war to expanding Empire to a bizarre pyramid scheme involving ducgomire (a large marsh bird that could grow to a man’s height, occasionally used as mounts by delta tribes) eggs. After the brief Ducgomire craze, the death of three of the council in an unusually bloody coup, and the subsequent war that the Empire had managed to lose (thus forfeiting several small delta towns to huge flocks of seven-foot birds, who ruled there to this day) a rare written clause was added reading simply “NO BIRD-RELATED SCHEMES”  
  
“And secondly, as has been our aim for the last century, since the reign of Petyr the Great, we aim, through our various powers, influence, abilities, and available forces, we will bring the Empire crashing down into civil war, find us a hero of prophecy, reunite the people, and from there, forge our own, stronger Empire of the Seven!”  
The cheers, even from five people (Dancé simply claps, and the Lord of Secrets simply nods), are loud enough to echo around the room, and Pagaoni smiles. The Emperor is weakening. His foolish son is converted to their cause. In a year, maybe two, this dream of the House Cláris, a dozen forces marshalling on the edges of the Empire, across the sea, beyond the Edge, and across the Great Dvarven Desert, not to mention, the hundred hundred disparate enemies that the Empire has, will bear such a harvest as to swell even Mikkel the Magnificent’s refined stomach to breaking point.  
“So…to business”


End file.
